Is Thorue a real word?
by writingpikachu
Summary: Greg Sanders never thought a teacher would be into him, but then again, he thought Thorue was a word. CONTAINS MILD YAOI - ok, just one kiss :


Greg Sanders looked at his watch. He was late for class – very late. Oh dear, Mr. Stokes wasn't going to like that. He ran into the hallway, almost careering into his senior, Warrick Brown.

"Sanders, Watch it!" the senior snapped. "And do you have a hall pass? You should be in class." Warrick never really liked him. As a sophomore, he was the gawkiest kid ever, biggest klutz in the school, and the one most likely to bring a cow to the prom. Warrick also considered him childish, and rather stupid. So getting caught like this was probably headed for deep trouble.

"Warrick, cool it." A calm voice approached them. "He was talking to me – that's why he's so late."

"Yes, Principal Grissom." Warrick was still glaring at him, but he couldn't do anything.

"Greg, I just needed to give this to you – pass it to Mr. Stokes when you go to class will you?" The principal gave him a note, winking. "I passed by here to have a word with Miss Sidle."

Both teenagers rolled their eyes. Everyone knew what happens when he wants to have a word with Miss Sidle. Then, Greg turned to go, but not before Warrick intentionally started the I'll-go-left-you-go-right-oops-never-mind routine.

"I'll be watching you, freak." Warrick snarled as he finally shoved past him.

Greg backed away and ran off. Warrick Brown was definitely not one to be messed with.

"Right guys, turn your textbooks to page 12 and…" Mr. Stokes trailed off as Greg tried to slip into the classroom. "Gregory, nice to have you here FINALLY with us," he stared the younger guy down. Greg hated that – it gave him such chills down his spine. Mr. Stokes was pretty good looking; but first, he was probably straight. Second, he probably had a girlfriend, or even a wife. I mean, who else was he dedicating those amazing sonnets to? One thing for sure, it was definitely not him.

"Sorry Mr. Stokes," Greg blushed, trying not to make eye contact with him. "I-I… I-I" He stopped, and just handed him the note principal Grissom had written. Then, he sat at his desk and turned to page 12 along with the rest of the class.

"Ok guys, I want to hear the poems that you did for homework last night." The teacher stopped, looking at Greg. "And Gregory, since you've finally decided to enlighten us with your presence, you can also enlighten us with the beautiful poetry you have written, no doubt."

Greg blushed even deeper, pulling out the grubby sheet of paper he wrote on last night.

"A-hem," he coughed.

"The way I want to kiss you

Is usually Thorue-"

"Greg," Mr. Stokes was clearly holding back a laugh. "Thorue isn't a word."

"It was in Shakespeare's time!" He sniffed indignantly. "Now then, as I was saying:

The way your eyes are like the moon in a jar

It makes one see you shine from afar

They dance like wild mustangs at sunset

No-one's compared you to that, I bet!

But joking aside, I've got to say

I hope you'll return my love one day.

I love you, always and true,

Nicky, I've got to tell you this, I love you."

There was an akward pause, and a few polite little claps. Greg went a beetroot red, and went back to his seat.

"Uh…" Mr. Stokes looked at his watch. Then the bell rang. "Oh, gee. Sorry I couldn't hear the rest of them – we'll hear them next week." As everyone shuffled out of the classroom, Greg thought he was home free. "Sanders, see me now."

"Oh boy," The head cheerleader, Catherine, grinned at him. "Got a bit too personal with your personification?"

"Probably," he muttered

"It'll work out," she smiled. "Wish me luck – I've got a make-up Biology test with Mr. Robbins."

"Good luck, to both of us," Greg replied, seeing her go. Catherine was pretty, smart and sexy – why couldn't he have just made his poem out to her instead?

When all the other kids had left, Mr. Stokes shut and locked the door. Greg gulped nervously.

"Sanders, you know that you're probably the most unpopular kid in school, right?" he asked the student

"Yeah,"

"And you know that I've had nearly twelve girlfriends since I got here,"

"Yeah," figured. Mr. Stokes was really, REALLY, good looking – and as straight as the pencil he always had tucked in his ear.

"But things aren't always as they seem," he continued. "Here's a few pictures of them – I usually go for blue eyes." It was true – all 12 pictures had pretty girls with blue eyes. "I hope you'll get one like these babes, I really do." He stood up. "Greg, you can go." He grinned as he slapped Greg's butt on his way out. The younger guy wasn't sure what to do, except leave. His butt smarted as he went to his locker, and then it hit him. Mr. Stokes had said he had dated _blue-_eyed girls, but all the poems he wrote were describing _brown_ eyes. He had brown eyes… he was the only brown-eyed in his class. He ran back to the classroom, only to find it empty. Looking out the window, Greg saw the teacher walking to his car. He sprinted out the school to the car park, sneaking up behind Mr. Stokes.

"Mr. Stokes," He ran up and, feeling more confident than ever, grabbed his shirt and pressed his lips to the older man's.

"God, I was hoping you'd figure it out," Mr. Stokes pulled back and smiled. "You know how long I've been waiting?"

"Only means I've got a lot to make up for." Greg wrapped his arms around him, and pecked him on the cheek

"Absolutely," he opened his car door. "Now get in."


End file.
